Where Was Your Watchman?

By the shores of Galilee, in Acts, after I thought you a gardener

in Gethsamane, stone rolled away as the angels cried dead bread

and maggots no more, the worms of Hades crawl blessed in soil

under the leaves you pluck, cursed figs still sweet on Yeshua’s lips,

the sand is bright, the waves lap like a man at his women’s sex the

white shore, and my footprints besides yours are washed away in

lunar tides.  We sit sewing cloth for the disciples, shrouds to remember

you by, and I Magdalene witnessed you first rise from the grave, held

you close as I burbled a brook pouring from your heart, and Rabboni,

you said: Woman, do not cling to me.  Were you teaching me how to

grow old without you?  The sun is setting, Rabboni, the ocean wind

is salty like a fish, and I crave only your blessing, and I want only you.

Thousands of years pass, but somehow the memory is fresh as a wound.

I rub salt in my stigmata, salt of the earth, light of the world, and I wince,

and I starve, and  I beat myself scourged, a festering pus-filled whore,

and I am only ruined out of love for you, your qadesh, o my Lord.

So quickly, cast the seas to drown me on the shores of Galilee.

I would but swim in your enigma, and drown in your undertow.

Fisher of men, take the reel, hook my mouth, and pull out

an Alleluia.  I have Hosannas enough for all time. I have thread

and needles for our garments of skin, and it all began

in a





A Plea to Devouring Aion

Aion Lion God
O Aion Bold, Aion Bright, encircle me tonight
in a bed of stars I will be the Cosmic Egg, you
lion yolk gold shouldering the yoke of time! Arial
comes to me in fever-bright dreams, wings of eagle,
head of fangs, wild golden Aion, and he shows me
Big Bang to Big Crunch, aboard an abduction vessel
like in my sicksweet childhood I would frolic on
under my alien’s watchful eye: “My love, together
we will build a new Aion and watch the rise and fall
of time. The Aeon of the lion-faced serpent approaches.”
And Zoroaster birthed Ahriman into the void, and Mithras
slew the moon bull at the heart of the clock, gravity
is only applicable if I say it is law, and spooky
entanglement means when you dance galaxies away from me,
Aion, my heart roars, and sashays in turn, like the Queen
of Sweet Sheba on a floor of mirrors for King Solomon.
Look below Sheba’s waist, and she is Lilith enflamed.
O Aion, O Ariel, O Bringer of Strife and Old Age.
My lion, my snake, my pridely king. You cradle me in
somnambulent splendorous arms and I am lifted high.
Will our daughter be your scion? My breasts are heavy
with milk, and my hips are swelling like a rose blossom.
Gia awaits, that clang of the shy cymbal gypsy dancer.
There is not much new in our story, I do not think:
Girl holds Lion’s jaws back and saves the world.
Iphigenia throws herself onto the rocks to save Greece.
Cassandra ends up with Apollo in the end, my Plague.
Names in your rolodex, leonthropic gods. Silver platter
of the lion’s feast, and we are trapped in Death’s
hourglass. Aion, Aion, Aion! Smile upon my suffering.
Aion, Aion, Aion, I am running

out of


In the Shadow of the Cross

Weeping wood, burls of blood, I see an arc of ancestors,

a Jacob’s Ladder from my Jesus’ brow, back into Avram’s

bosom.  This tree without leaves will bear only gory fruit.

Water and wine, and these punctured feet I clutch, oh how

visceral the silver nails stab into Godly flesh, moldy bread.

They will say I was taken up by angels and did not putrify.

But penitent in the desert, I was a corpse, and my seven

devils taught me philosophy, arithmetic, divination, magic.

There is always a Sorceress at the heart of every story, a

prophetess, whether Daughter of Zion or Morgan Le Fay,

and at Bethany in my sister and I’s house, Martha baked,

and I listened to Gospel, and I anointed with myrrh saved

for three years, cost a fraction of the tribulation to come.

And now the angel of my better nature is suspended between

what is and what is not, and I am Eve in his skin cloth, wasted.

I will drink my fill of Him in time, but grow old and cold.

At the foot of the cross is a shadow, it says, be fruitful and

prosper.  But mine is a covenant of wicked delights, found

at epileptic fits and bipolar highs and lows, and only cool

hands of thunderclouds can ease my sorrows, in his Death

and Ressurection, there was a voice of mice within me: oh

Miriam: be bold.  Live like Gabriel’s trumpet is lowing, take

your words as swords and preach in the desert, they will

call you a whore and heretic, but my Qadesh was my goddess

once, and I Michael tell you, better to have tasted the parting

of love and buried your father, brother, and son, then to never

know the shadow of the cross.


Oh Great Cosmic Egg! Birth Eternal the Light!

In the Night of Nyx from Black Womb He Rises!

Onyx Eyes, Revolving Axis Mundi, Serpent Beguiling.

Lion Faced Roar! Winged Ears to Hear the Winds!

And Archaic Smile of Phanes Knowing All! Time

is Tranquil and Stars Courses. Ancient Eros, Hail!


Blade of thorns, oh Damage Twig!
Fiery furnace that pierces Freyr.
So in dying the Green God succumbs
to Surtr’s glare, a razing dagger
Sinmora enchanted with molten roses.
Shield of simmering glass, leaden.
Temper the bow and measure arrows
swift, burn in time to the dance,
Ragnarok rides.

Godly Hands

The hands that caress, chosen King
Lord of all the living things, crown
of sun, Satan undone, rings of ruby,
blood of Jordan, over Death won, gold
the creamy white on trim, Lord of men,
clutching book of holy law, words heard
in Church from the Father our God.


The Battle Crow cries, Cuchulain dies
on a tree propped up by guts, she feasts
on the dead, red bloody heads, poppies bloom
at her feet and despair kisses Cuchulain blue
as the Morrigu’s lips seals his fate, on plains
where the Tuatha cry for Danu. No man escapes geas.

No man is above death.

No man can resist

The Phantom Queen, woad spiral labyrinths, grease
paint over stormy eyes, hair thorny branches, skin
sow milk, tall and terrifying, nursing blood, aloft.

Morrigu, Morrigu, grant me a wish of fire, a wish of ice.

On Cuchulain’s deathbed, let me feast, let me feast.

We are one, Badb. We are Great Queens, Great Queens.

Hail the Morrigu, Morrigu tender crow. Storm crow.

Battle Crow. Battle Crow, Ka Ka!


Earthenware jars awash with ghee,

offering up milk to Mother Earth,

her honeyspun breasts, tumeric cheeks

swell of hips like citrons, rind lemon.

Carved from cavern of Mount Kailash,

beautiful banter betwixt her dakinis,

flying aloft, living marble, towering

over the abode of Tara, where she

weeps rivers of joy at Indra’s birth.

Oh sweet Tara! Manifold clay, reddish

hue a mummer’s play! Oh joyful Tara!

From heavens divine! Dharma and karma

align so sublime. Bountiful Tara! Let us

harvest the rice.  Rain down monsoons

over valleys of your legs, your sex tilled

and toiled, dark earth ripe with worms.

Your mysteries are shadows, Hill Mother.

We dance, weave baskets, wear saris cut

from your cloth.  Humble Tara, namaste.


O Bull of Heaven, Abel First-Slain, ice sky eyes

lolling tongue as your brain bleeds out clouds,

the Golden Calf and mysteries of first martyr,

Adamah’s alchemist, God’s golden boy, altar cloth.

You were not meant to live past fifteen, and how

a mother mourns, how Cain bore a grim cross,

and Seth never even knew your name. First was

the Son of Dragon Qayin, brother of fire, second was

the thick seraphic Ox, son of rain, third was boy of

golden light, Yeshua’s line.  And your parents cry,

and no mother should bury her child, and I grow

old and cold, and in Pluto’s Cave on Mount Shasta,

the Sefer Raziel hums with virgin blood, and I am

the Weeping Wailer.